Teeluur put thoughts of Brauud away as he pushed open the door to the restaurant. The place was nearly empty. Most of the faculty at the college up the hill had been pulled back to their active duty stations and the town was paying the price. If the war went on much longer places like this were almost certainly destined for shuttering. Besides, the food was not that good.
He said something to the hostess at the door and joked about his inability to find a vacant table in the almost-empty eatery. He didn’t know enough about human behavior to tell if she was amused or annoyed at his jocularity. If he was a betting man he would have wagered on her being annoyed. If he had been blessed with eyes in the back of his head he would have seen the human gesture of a raised middle finger as the hostess followed him to the rear of the dining room.
* * *
The sounds and smells in the detention block irritated Admiral Constance Berger. She knew she had no room to complain, and even if she did, who the hell would listen to her? In a matter of days she had gone from a position of high visibility in the Admiralty of the Colonial Navy to one of lowly inmate in the Weyring Navy Base brig. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, she told herself. During the last two months she’d been visited by several members of the JAG — Judge Advocate General — corps and the young Navy lawyers had nothing to offer her in the way of a defense. They pretty much had instructed her to throw herself on the mercy of the court martial panel and hope for the best. That would necessarily mean loss of rank, loss of freedom, loss of pay and benefits. But now, now that the Colonial Navy was at war, it could also mean loss of her life.
Deep down, she really didn’t care. Her actions to help the Varson Empire avenge the death of her only child seemed logical and sane at the time she’d engaged in her deceits. Now it was only a matter of time before the full weight of the Navy’s legal system decided what to do with her. Her trial date had been scheduled for sometime next month and as soon as the panel of judges could be convened she would stand in the dock of a military tribunal.
That insufferable Lieutenant Mols had visited her regularly. Trying to sniff out any more hidden players in her little revenge drama, trying to put names and faces together. She had given them nothing. They weren’t deserving of any more information. Let them sort it out on their own, the intelligensia brigade, the ham-handed losers who thought themselves a cut above the rest of the pond scum.
One interesting thing she was able to find out through the brig scuttlebutt, though. Mols had an actual Varson intelligence operative in captivity, right here in the cell block. Berger didn’t know who the man was, or what the circumstances of his capture was all about. She was completely isolated from the rest of the detainees down here and aside from her one-hour-a-day walk around the holding pens behind the blockhouse complex, she was not allowed access to any of the other prisoners. Only her keen ears for details and her silent absorption of snippets of conversation from the jailers led her to her rightful conclusions.
Maybe, if she kept her ears to the ground and her mouth shut, she could find a way out of this brig and the prosecutable mess she found herself in.
Just maybe.
Chapter 7
Sergeant Ken Royal showed up for his interview right on time. Commander Holt was very specific when he talked to the policeman on the comm link. Don’t be late, he had been advised.
Now Royal was sitting in the office of the Provost Marshal of the Hayes Military Preparatory School and looking into the craggy face of Commander Halston H. Holt. Royal estimated the man to be in his seventies and he looked like an animated fossil, with thin tendrils of silver hair atop a scarred and wrinkled head. His eyes were bright and knowing, however, and Royal paid attention to his every word.
“We don’t get a lot of civilian instructors up here, sergeant. The war has left us with a few openings that we need to fill soonest. You do realize there is not a lot of need for law enforcement training for our cadets? The ones that opt for the Shore Patrol or for advanced NIS stuff are usually snapped up by the Colonial Marines as soon as they graduate. They get their training from the certified bad-asses, if you know what I mean.”
Royal shifted his weight and nodded. “I understand, sir. Your post on the Weyring bulletin board said that you would be interviewing for a variety of positions. I indicated on my application that I would be willing to serve as a fitness trainer, a PT instructor if you will. I also have a law degree that I’ve never used. You mentioned that you could use some help in the Naval History and the Legal Department as well.”
The old commander cackled. “Yes, I did, didn’t I. Well, I guess you could help when we teach these young heathens about the CUCMJ. Get them started on the right foot so they don’t wind up in the brig on their first watch.”
“Exactly what I was thinking, sir. I’m familiar with the Unified Code of Military Justice; six years in the Colonial Marines will do that for you. That experience is what got me the job of Military Liason Officer with the Nova Haven Police Department.” Royal went on to explain just how he wound up on Bayliss at the start of the latest Varson hostilities, his involvement with the Navy on Elber Prime, and his familiarity with the deaths that had followed Captain Haad and his crew to Bayliss. At the end of his summation he mentioned Harold Hansen and his mother.
“So, you know that young man Hansen. I had to set him straight his first night on the campus. Haven’t seen him back in my office since then, so he must have gotten the message.”
Royal smiled to himself. “What message was that, sir?”
The old man sat back and reached for his riding crop. His desk was awash in so much memorabilia that it was like looking at a display case in an old toy store. Holt gently slapped the crop into the palm of his left hand as he spoke next. “I just let him know who the goddamned boss was around here. Made him respect my authority, that’s what.”
“I see. Well, I could also keep an eye on him for you, commander. Make sure he keeps himself out of trouble.”
Holt looked at Sergeant Royal through slitted lids. Who did this young cop think he was fooling? He couldn’t keep his eye on the inside of his own lids, Holt mused. “Tell you what, sergeant. Let’s start you out with a temporary position in the History Department. I expect you to brush up on your Navy history while you get familiar with the way I want things done around here. If you have the time, you can help out in the gymnasium too. That sound fair?”
“Is this like a probationary position, sir? If it is, how long is the probation period?”
Holt smacked his crop down hard on his desk, upsetting a little display of decorative miniature colonial flags in the process and knocking a small globe off its perch. “It’s for however long I say it is. You want the job or not?”
Ken Royal stood and reached out a hand. “I’m your man, sir. When do you want me to start?”
Holt turned away and waved off the outstretched hand. “Give me a few days to arrange a billet for you. Go back down the hill and get your stuff. Come back in, say, two days. See Mrs. Yearling out in the front office. She’s new around here, too. My yeomen had to go on down and help out at Weyring. How they expect me to run a military school without any real military men or women up here beats the hell out of me.”
Ken said his goodbyes and made his way back to the bus and the rail hub. At least he would be doing something useful here on Bayliss. Something to pass the time until Max Hansen and the Hudson River returned to port.
The prospect of seeing her again lifted his spirits and caused his heart to suffer a quick bout of arrhythmia.
What was happening? he wondered.
* * *
“Target acquired, sir,” Admiral Regiid said without emotion.
“Proceed to the launch coordinates, admiral. Have your escort boats be on the lookout for any human ships. While the action around Bayliss has kept most of their Colonial Navy busy, we don’t want to be jumped out here around this star. What is the human name for it?” Bale Phatie asked.
“They call
it ‘Mickens-13’ and it shows up on our charts as Weenduu, my eminence. A basic yellow-orange dwarf with several rocky planets. The humans are on the fourth one, now at perihelion. That is why we unfolded at this location, sir. The star right behind us makes our ships harder to detect.”
Bale Phatie grunted his approval. He was on the bridge of the Decimator, a Malguurian battle cruiser outfitted with the latest hybrid technology, innovations stolen from the humans and integrated into the Domain’s clunky but effective weaponry and drive mechanisms. The Decimator had been so named by Phatie after the ship had demonstrated its new weapons systems and its new decimator gun. The cross between human technology and Malguurian ruthlessness suited Phatie just fine and he now used the new ship as his personal flagship.
“Time until release of the weapon?” Phatie inquired.
Admiral Regiid looked at his weapons console and the officer there operated a line of control squares. Small spider-like numbers flashed across his screen. “Sixteen human minutes, sir,” the man replied.
“This is a ‘fire and forget’ weapon, my eminence. Once we release it, we head back to the fold,” Regiid said.
“I hope your supreme confidence in this system is not misplaced, Admiral Regiid. I would like to make sure it works as advertised.”
Regiid looked at the Piru Torgud. “It will take us about twenty minutes to reach the Dyson threshold, sir. It will take the weapon about twelve minutes to deploy. I will station a drone observation ship near the equatorial plane and it will relay the images of the destruction to us here. We should have a full accounting before we make the jump.”
Phatie nodded. Regiid was consistent in his planning and execution of this action, something rare and commendable. If only all of my Fleet and Field Uurgud commanders had his attention to detail, the Domain might actually prevail in this war, he thought. “Excellent work, admiral. Lieutenant Manciir, make a note to the file, another commendation for Admiral Ceendi Regiid and he is now eligible to wear the Decimator Badge for all to see.”
Phatie’s aide nodded and made an annotation in his portable reader. If this action panned out, old Regiid’s tunic would be pulled down to the deck by all of the medals he was accumulating. Such is the military life in the Malguurian Navy. Plenty of accolades and awards and many more shootings and beheadings. Manciir hoped, for Regiid’s sake, the weapon functioned properly. Should the Piru Torgud find the operation less than satisfactory and it cost Regiid his head, Manciir would have a hell of a time removing all references of the admiral from the historical archives.
“The rest of the boats are now in place, admiral.” This from Regiid’s communications officer.
Phatie had a retinue of four destroyers and four frigates on this cruise along with their associated tenders and fuel barges. He was learning fast when it came to conducting warfare in space. The loss to the humans ten years ago and the early losses in this current campaign had upped his learning curve tremendously. He now felt he had the confidence and the logistics in place to take the fight to the Colonial Navy anywhere in this arm of the galaxy.
“Naarid Sheerd, put the planet on the forward screen,” Regiid ordered his comm officer.
“On screen, sir,” Sheerd acknowledged.
“Sir, I’m showing a small craft making toward fold speeds, leaving the planet’s largest satellite at our two six five, down six.” From the helmsman.
“Naarid Yaggaar, steady as she goes. The small fish do not concern me,” Regiid said.
Bale Phatie raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Regiid was running the boat and he deferred to his judgement and agreed to his assessments. It would be foolish to break up the current formation and chase each and every boat leaving the system. In the next ten minutes there could be hundreds of outbounds and as long as none of them challenged this mission, they could all fold straight to hell.
“Weapon release point in ten minutes, sir,” the weapons alcove reported.
“Arm the weapon, Naarid Heevie. Set the barometric trigger to fire at five thousand meters, that’s exactly ten renaade, and use the baseline gravitational equivalent of point eight eight Canuure standard. Scans show atmospheric density at point nine two. Adjust the mechanism accordingly.”
Heevie made the proper adjustments to the timing software embedded in the weapon’s firing mechanism.
“Sir! We’re being hailed! Colonial Navy warships at our one one six, heading up at two seven,” an excited Yaggaar shouted from the helm.
“Battle stations, Naarid Sheerd. Notify all commanders, battle stations.”
“Time to release seven minutes.”
Warning klaxons sounded on the Decimator and bridge activity ramped up accordingly. Incoming data streamed across the forward blister and animated displays showed three intruders closing on the Malguurian formation. Admiral Regiid commanded the helm to remain on course to the target release point. He ordered his four frigates to engage the humans and keep them away from the lead ships. He still had four destroyers flanking his battle cruiser and he hoped his attack boats could at least hold off the humans for the next six or seven minutes. No matter what the outcome of this skirmish, the new weapon had to have its day in the sun.
“Mister Sheerd,” Admiral Regiir said, switching to conversational Elberese, “open a channel to the incoming Colonial Navy ships. I believe you will find them on one nine seven point six.”
Phatie walked away from the main blister and watched the drama unfold from the CIC — Combat Information Center — alcove. Regiir was well prepared for this confrontation, he surmised, and Colonel Inskaap was indeed correct in his quest to instruct these men on all things human. Just the thought of that traitor Inskaap caused Phatie’s blood to start a slow boil. He had searched the entire Domain and found no traces of the man. That meant he could have only wound up in one place: human hands. His bounty on Inskaap’s head had grown to over six million credits.
“Channel open, sir. On your stack.”
“This is Admiral Ceendi Regiid of the Malguur Domain. We have come here to claim this planet you call Canno for the people of the Domain. Contact your superiors and I will discuss terms of your unconditional surrender and make plans to have your people safely evacuated from the surface and from your satellite bases. You have thirty of your minutes to reply.”
Silence from the comm stack.
“Release point in five minutes, sir.”
Regiid was just about to repeat his message when the raspy static cleared and the white noise of a carrier wave hollowed out the background. “Respectfully, admiral, you are to withdraw your ships immediately or suffer retaliation. This is Captain Jon Walls of the Colonial Navy. You are in violation of sovereign space administered by the authority of the Colonial Alliance of Planets. A state of war exists with the Varson Empire. You have one minute to shut down your engines or you will be fired upon. One minute, admiral.”
Admiral Regiid hesitated. He had to buy a little more time.
“Four minutes,” Mister Heevie said.
“Captain Walls, I must confer with my superiors belowdecks. I will need time to assess your demands.”
“You have thirty seconds, admiral. No more time. Shut down your engines and recall your frigates. This is my last communication,” a testy Jon Walls said.
“Sir, four more Colonial Navy ships at our aft quarter, closing fast,” Mister Yaggaar said.
“Mister Sheerd, give me my tactical comm,” Regiid commanded. He waited two seconds then said, “Engage the Colonial Navy ships. All batteries, fire at will. We have targets forward and below, aft and above. Fire at will!”
“Three minutes, sir.”
Two of his four destroyers peeled off from the main group and made wide sweeping turns, heading for the four Navy vessels closing on the Decimator’s aft quarter. The frigates that had split off beforehand were locked in an exchange of energy weapons with Captain Walls’ group. The comm officer put the two battles on the main blister with each group occupying half of the huge
display. One of the Malguurian frigates was the first casualty of the fight, its topside literally torn off by a searing laser blast just below deck two. The attack boat seemed to stop in mid turn, expand its hull for a fraction of a second, then empty its contents into the void in an expanding bubble of blue and orange flame.
“Two minutes, sir.”
“Steady as she goes, Mister Yaggaar. Weapons, have you made all the necessary adjustments to the trigger?” Regiid wanted to know.
“Trigger recalibrated per your instructions, my admiral. She’s ready to fly,” Lieutenant Commander Heevie reported.
Mister Heevie, plow the fields forward on my command. We need a clear trajectory when we launch the rocket. I do not want it interfered with. Prepare to release the drones.”
Heevie acknowledged and awaited his orders to release the drones and the weapon.
“We’ve knocked out one of their ships, sir. Took her amidships and walked the fire back to her drive engines. Ruptured and on fire at our one five five,” Mister Sheerd said from the comm alcove.
“One minute to coordinates.”
“Mister Heevie, launch the drones. Equatorial orbit at two two seven. One eastbound, one west against the rotation. I want a good look at this,” the admiral ordered.
“We’re being painted, sir, aft port quarter. Targeting radar in the K-band,” his comm officer announced.
“Higgs at maximum. Steady as she goes, helm. Give me a count at fifteen seconds. Mister Heevie, clear the launch window,” Regiid ordered.
Bale Phatie stood with his hands on his hips and watched. This admiral was at the top of his game, he thought. Cool and calm under fire. Phatie was silently rooting for him, not only for the success of the mission, the weapon, but also for his personal success. This was the kind of officer the Domain needed in a time of war, someone capable and bright, someone to be paraded and decorated in front of the Onduud — the politicians — as soon as they got back to Canuure.
The Belt Loop (Book Three) - End of an Empire Page 5
